No Words
by WhosJeebus
Summary: It's true that opposites attract, but once that attraction is acted upon, how do they manage to communicate?


Title: No Words

Author: WhosJeebus

Rating: K+

Pairing(s): Seto/Joey

Beta: Ykarzel (she's also available for parties, weddings, and bar mitzvahs!)

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: They be not mine, yarr! Avast ye maties, and don't be suing ol' cap'n CJ, as she done buried her treasure and forgot where it be! Yarr!

Summary: It's true that opposites attract, but once that attraction is acted upon, how do they manage to communicate?

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I like it best when he doesn't talk.

Contrary to popular belief, I don't find Wheeler to be all that annoying when he's apart from his loser friends, but that doesn't necessarily mean his endless prattle is welcome. Out in public is one thing, but this is an altogether different type of situation.

Mokuba is the one who always invites him over, and I make it a point not to protest too strenuously. At times, I've wondered whether or not my brother is aware of what's going on, or possibly even trying to instigate something between Wheeler and me. It's a laughable notion, but I'm suspicious of everyone's motives – even those of my own flesh and blood.

Tonight was going to be one of the more pleasant nights, if my hunch was correct. Mokuba had taken himself off to bed an hour ago, citing fatigue from softball practice, and a busy Saturday schedule in the morning. As always, he played the part of the gracious host perfectly before he left, and his manners were impeccable. I searched his face as he yawned and stretched, begging Wheeler to stay and finish his movie, even as his eyes darted to me, seeking approval.

Mokuba may have made a show of his departure, but I detected nothing out of the ordinary in his actions. He seemed guileless, but I know him better than anyone. If he was up to something, then he hid it well. I pride myself on having taught him everything he knows about subtle manipulations, although I certainly never intended for him to practice his skills on me. I might need to have a little 'talk' with my brother, at a later date.

My laptop was closed and silent, resting on the floor by the sofa where it had resided for the past fifteen minutes. I looked over at Wheeler, studying his profile as he stared at the television screen, his concentration broken only by the occasional blink or shift in position. The gulf that separated the two of us had gradually closed since Mokuba's exit, and again, I was thankful that no words or exchanges had interrupted the moment. Friday nights always began like this – how it ended would depend solely on Wheeler.

Occasionally, Mokuba stayed up with us. On those nights, I immersed myself in work, offering only a random, noncommittal grunt if I should happen to hear my name mentioned. By the time I looked up again, Wheeler was usually gone, and I told myself that that was fine, too.

Then there were the times that he insisted on making conversation. When Mokuba had taken his leave, and the movie credits scrolled past, it was inevitable that Wheeler would turn to me and ask an asinine question, or attempt to engage me in some sort of discussion that I couldn't care less about. Those were the nights that I had to make a hasty decision about what to do, what to say, how to act. I detest rushing ANYTHING.

The possibilities were endless, and all less than satisfactory, to my mind. I could fix the two of us a drink, steer the banter toward something he and I might have in common. A dubious prospect at best. Simply leaving the room seemed cowardly, but I admit to having taken that route a time or two, as well. I disliked having to decide these types of things for myself, which may seem shocking, but that doesn't make it any less accurate.

I make monumental decisions day in and day out – decisions that impact my life and Mokuba's, decisions that affect the running of my company and resonate down through the lives of every single person in my employ, decisions that influence the way the very world revolves, if truth be told. I don't believe in false modesty, no matter if it's considered proper, or even if the situation warrants it. If I'm unwilling to play such a part for my own benefit, then I'll be damned if I wear that mask in front of Joey Wheeler, in my own home. I'm not one to give up control easily, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I ever wanted it in the first place. I never doubted that this was a universal truth, but even so, it was one so far over Wheeler's head that it might as well have been a shooting star.

Which made it all the more surprising, but not unwelcome, when he leaned over and kissed me for the first time. I never argued, I never fought off his advances, and he never let on that he found my behaviour to be the slightest bit unusual. At first, it disturbed me no end to think that Wheeler might have had some sort of insight into my psyche; that he could tell what I wanted when even I was unaware of it, but I've since learned that that was never the case. Like always, he simply took a gamble, and infuriatingly, his luck was in yet again.

I discovered this fact because, inevitably, after the kissing had advanced to heavy petting, he started TALKING again. Hopes and fears and dreams and favourite foods and hobbies and an endless stream of NOTHING poured forth, and I was forced to make a strategic retreat under the onslaught.

We've made our way past that hurdle, and I've found that idle conversation with Wheeler is not necessarily the evil I had always assumed it would be. Either that, or his relentless sprinting from topic to topic, with barely a breath in between, has begun to wear me down. As it is, I don't mind having a dialogue with him on occasion, and there ARE more than a few subjects that interest the both of us, to my amazement and chagrin. But lately, even after we exchange pleasantries, even after we've made our way to bed and lie sated in the afterglow, he wants to TALK. And not about Duel Monsters, or school, or even family and friends. He wants to talk about US.

He glances over at me then, and I stare back, trying to discern what sort of Friday this is going to be, just by plumbing the depths of his eyes. His brow furrows, and before his lips move to form the sentence, I can feel my heart catch in my throat. I already know what he's going to say.

"Seto... I think we need to talk."

My hopes are shattered, and I realize that it's going to be one of THOSE nights.

You see, I like it best when there are no words.

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the end


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